Hell, I feel like I should stand up in a group, everyone in those uncomfortable metal chairs used in school auditoriums and gyms for mass overflow to open events, all lined in a perfect little circle, a paper nametag stuck to my chest, as I fold my hands before me and utter, “Hello, my name is Thumper, and my house is disgusting 95% of the time.”
Everyone will then clap and praise me for my honesty, because they, too, suck at keeping a clean house. We would all smile and support one another, but because we’re all there with our butts plastered onto hard steel, no one’s house is getting any cleaner.
I walked into the bathroom today and realized I had to do it. I had to not just pick up the dirty towel on the floor and the empty TP rolls that were lined up on the counter, but I had to get down on my hands and knees and scrub. I needed to clean the toilet. I needed to wipe and clean and then wipe and clean the vanity some more.
While I was on my hands and knees, trying to get behind the toilet, I had two thoughts:
1. Whose bright idea was it to place toilets so close to bathtubs and vanities, or even walls, that getting behind it is a royal pain? Did no one ever stop to think that someday someone would be contorting themselves in order to scrub the nether regions of the throne?
And
2. This is all my sister’s fault. I suck at housecleaning, and it’s all her fault. Oh, she doesn’t know it’s her fault and I’m sure she would vehemently disagree, but I know it’s her fault. It’s her fault because, during those years when we shared a room, I never had to clean it. Now, we were both sent to our room to clean it, but after 5 minutes, she would place her hands on her hips, sigh hard, and say, “Just get out. This will be a lot easier without your ‘help.’”
Heh.
It made me very happy then, but the long term effect is that I did not learn how to clean. I learned how to avoid cleaning, and that I am very good at.
Now, don’t get the idea that there was no parental instruction involved in learning how to clean. We had to take turns setting the table, clearing the table, and doing dishes. I can do dishes. Or if I didn’t have a dishwasher, I could do dishes. But since I have one, that’s a moot skill. The thing is, by not having a dishwasher as a child, I did not learn that there is no kitchen fairy who loads the dishwasher, hence sometimes (read: often) stuff sits in the sink over night, waiting for that elusive fairy to show up.
When it came to other household chores, I was a master of getting out of it. I’m not even sure how, but I suspect it had to do with lots of whining, lots of foot dragging, lots of pointing out that my friends were outside and they needed me to play shortstop.
Oh, and did you know there’s no laundry fairy, either? Damn, was I ever surprised to find that out…
Would I like a clean house? Heck, yeah. I’d love for it to be all shiny and sparkly and fresh smelling. But getting that is work. On the whole, I’d rather be out riding or driving around topless or playing online.
Hey, I never said I was mature.
I am immature and my house is dirty and I don’t really care most of the time. Thinking about it, I don’t need the support group. Those of you with sterile, clean houses should actually envy me. While you’re vacuuming and wiping things down and dusting this and that, I’m out riding or driving, and I have a frickin’ huge smile on my face.
Yep, clean is over rated.
:::wanders off, debating: clean the kitchen, or go for a ride… :::
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